


The Oldest Magic

by Pseudonymoose



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Hurt Anakin Skywalker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudonymoose/pseuds/Pseudonymoose
Summary: His mother had a simple remedy for bruises and bumps. Though Anakin grows up, he never forgets.It might not be magic, but it helps.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 157





	The Oldest Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweet_sarcastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_sarcastic/gifts).



> Here it is, the "fic where the medical treatment is a wet paper towel", and not a dash of crack in sight.

At four standard years old, Anakin wasn’t much of a judge of slave masters, but Watto seemed okay. His junkyard was a treasure trove of fascinating gizmos, and now Anakin and his mother had an actual, real home of their own. Their own table, their own chairs, their own walls and bed and windows and a _kitchen_ , just for them.

Anakin thought that their new house in Mos Espa was gigantic. He liked to run circles around the kitchen table, to dart in and out of rooms with his arms spread, pretending to be one of the starfighters he saw in holovids. One day he was going to be a pilot and fly really fast, even faster than the podracers at the Grand Arena.

The problem was that Anakin wasn’t a pilot or a racer. He was a child, not yet the height of his mother’s hip, and his racetrack was a house made of stone. He tripped over a stray memory chip he had knocked to the floor and hit his knee. It hurt, and he cried.

His mother came running in from the kitchen. She knelt beside him and gathered him in her arms. Anakin buried his blotchy face in her dress.

“Ssh, Ani,” she soothed. “Whatever is the matter?”

Anakin explained through tears: his knee hurt, he fell over and it really hurt. His mother picked him up and carried him through to the kitchen table, sitting him on the edge. She crouched and rolled the scuffed cloth up his leg, baring his knee for inspection. Anakin looked at it, sniffling. The skin was pink.

“I think you’ll live,” his mother said, smiling.

Anakin hiccupped. “But it hurts real bad, Momma. It might go bad and green and then my leg will fall off.” That’s what had happened to Granatus, the old one-legged man who begged in the market. Granatus had told him all about it.

His mother put one hand to her mouth and smoothed Anakin’s hair with the other. “You need to stop listening to that Granatus,” she told him. “He’s full of lots of tall tales and likes to scare children like you. You’ve just bruised your knee a little, that’s all. I know it hurts, but your leg isn’t going to fall off.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” She patted his cheek. “Why don’t you go and play? Quietly, mind. No more running around indoors. That’s how accidents happen.”

Anakin bit his thumbnail, a habit he was trying to break. Watto didn’t like it. He thought about getting down and playing with his toys. His knee felt a bit better, but he was still upset.

His mother noticed. “Ani? Are you okay?”

“It hurts,” Anakin mumbled, looking down at the floor.

The light changed as his mother stood. “I think I know something that can help.”

She walked away. Anakin swung his bare feet and watched her go to the sink and turn on the tap. Was she getting him a drink? He wasn’t thirsty.

Anakin’s mother came back with something dark and blueish-green—a disposable paper towel, like they used at Watto’s for cleaning up nasty liquids that would ruin rags. She pressed it to Anakin’s knee. It was cold and damp.

“Here,” she said, “you can hold it.”

Anakin’s hand replaced hers. Somehow, it didn’t hurt as much anymore.

“That’s an old trick,” his mother said. “My mother taught it to me, and her mother taught it to her. It can make anything feel better.”

“Is it magic?” Anakin asked. “Like the Jedi?” He’d heard stories about the Jedi. They were people with swords made of light who could do all these amazing things. He thought he might like to be a Jedi, though what he really wanted was to be a pilot.

His mother laughed and shook her head. “No, Ani; not like the Jedi. Though maybe it does have a little magic all of its own.” She kissed his forehead and helped him down from the table.

Anakin took his paper towel with him and scampered out of the kitchen. His knee felt fine.

It was definitely magic.

* * *

He was going to get Sebulba in the next race. The guy was such a jerk, and a cheat. All Anakin needed was another power cell, just one, and his pod would leave Sebulba’s in the dust.

Watto yelled at him from inside the shop, telling him to stop daydreaming and work harder.

Ugh. It was always _work harder_ , and _do this_ , and _aren’t you finished yet, boy?_

Anakin was sick of it, sick of being a slave. He supposed that was probably how all slaves felt. One day he’d get off this stupid rock and be a proper pilot, not just a racer. He’d come back and free everyone, and then there wouldn’t be any more slaves in the whole galaxy.

For now, Anakin kept polishing droid parts. He knew it could be worse. At least he got to race. And he _would_ beat Sebulba. Maybe not in the next race, but definitely the one after that. He could feel it.

The twin suns were directly overhead when Anakin finished polishing. Watto hadn’t given him any new instructions, so he moved to the next item on his list of things that needed doing: cleaning sand out of a thermal regulator. That was one place you did not want to find sand, though if you asked Anakin, any place was a bad place to find sand.

He dragged the regulator across the yard to a shaded corner with an awning. It was just a pair of old grain sacks that Anakin had stitched loosely together, but it kept off the worst of the sun. The movement was hard on his elbow. Yet another reason to curse Sebulba—if the blasted Dug hadn’t cut him off, he wouldn’t have bashed it into the side of his pod making a hairpin turn.

Anakin got to work on the regulator. It was arduous and fiddly. Worst of all, it was frustrating. It seemed like every time he got rid of some of the sand, more got in. He knew he’d have to finish the job in the shop, but that would have to wait until it closed for the day. Watto didn’t like him doing mechanical work in there if there was the chance a customer could walk in; said it was bad for business.

Noise from indoors. Anakin strained his ears. It sounded like Watto was hiding the money. Yes; Anakin could almost see him hovering behind the counter, twisting the false exhaust tube, lifting out the panel. If Watto was hiding the money, Watto was going out, and that was almost always good news for Anakin.

The noises stopped. Watto came out into the yard and spoke in Huttese. Anakin nodded along, thanking his lucky stars. He’d been right; Watto was going out, and he wasn’t asking Anakin to mind the shop.

“And fix that transformer,” Watto called as a farewell. He left, and the shop door banged shut soon after.

Okay, Anakin would fix the transformer. But before that, he would get the thermal regulator into the shop and get the rest of the sand out of it. And before _that_ , he would do something about his elbow.

Anakin got up from the ground and went inside, into Watto’s back room. Here they kept anything that didn’t belong in the shop, and couldn’t be left out in the yard at the mercy of the elements. The metal shelving units and cabinets were mostly filled with tools and cleaning supplies. There was also a medkit, but Anakin didn’t think that dressings and antiseptic would do him much good. The only thing that could fix his elbow was bacta, and even the weird new artificial stuff was too expensive for Watto to buy and waste on the likes of him.

Bypassing the medkit, Anakin found the half-empty box of paper towels. They had been getting through a lot recently, ever since Watto got hold of that ancient Devaronian freighter. Those things had a lot of useful parts, so long as you could get the filthy lubricant off them. Anakin had spent so much time scrubbing that his fingertips had been numb for days.

Anakin grabbed a paper towel and took it back out to the yard. There was a faucet on the far side, connected to a moisture vaporator that Anakin periodically had to repair. He released a trickle of water onto the towel and turned the tap off as soon as he judged it to be wet enough.

Back under the awning, he sat with his back to the wall and pressed the compress against his elbow. The relief was immediate. Anakin shut his eyes and slouched. He was hungry, and he had so much work to do—the regulator, the transformer, a million more other jobs—but just for a moment, he forgot. About Watto, his stomach, Sebulba, sand; the whole lot of it.

It felt good. Kind of like magic, if there really was such a thing.

He would move in a minute. 

* * *

Anakin had a lightsaber, and Obi-Wan was afraid to let him use it.

That was how it felt to Anakin, anyway. Who knew what Obi-Wan’s true reasons were? Maybe he was just being mean. Maybe he thought that Anakin wasn’t good enough. Or, maybe, Obi-Wan could see just how good Anakin was, and he was afraid that Anakin would surpass him.

The weapon was his life. That’s what Obi-Wan had told him, when he’d come back with it from Ilum. So where, exactly, did Anakin’s Master get off with confiscating it after every practice session?

Other Padawans got to walk around the Temple with their lightsabers. Anakin was used to being a loner, but this was a new low. The fabled Chosen One couldn’t be trusted with his own lightsaber.

Anakin flopped face down onto his bed and hit the mattress with his fist. It wasn’t a behaviour becoming of a Jedi, that’s what his Master would say, but Anakin didn’t care.

The first couple of times Obi-Wan had asked for his lightsaber, Anakin had begrudgingly handed it over. He’d learned by now that Obi-Wan could be annoyingly overcautious about the weirdest things. Sometimes it was best to just go with the flow. But when Obi-Wan still insisted on it after _three weeks_? Anakin was more than done with that crap.

His mistake had been saying so to Obi-Wan.

Anakin rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. Obi-Wan probably expected him to meditate. As if that was going to happen.

He had been told to stay in their quarters, so he would stay in their quarters, but that didn’t mean Anakin would treat this as the punishment Obi-Wan had meant it to be. If anything, this was a reprieve. He’d never wanted to go to that stupid briefing Master Yoda was holding in the first place.

Anakin got up and went through to their living quarters. He poured himself a cup of milk and climbed onto the kitchen counter, for no other reason than that it would make Obi-Wan mad. Yoda’s briefings always took forever. His Master wouldn’t be back for ages. Plenty of time for Anakin to plot some kind of revenge, if he was so inclined. He hadn’t decided yet. Revenge was not the Jedi way, though Anakin was willing to bet that whoever came up with that maxim hadn’t had their lightsaber stolen from them for no good reason.

The key would be for it not to look like revenge. That way Obi-Wan would only be annoyed, not angry. After all, Anakin wasn’t _angry_ with him; just really, really annoyed. Plus, they had to live together. Making Obi-Wan angry was not in Anakin’s best interests.

He finished his milk and enacted the first stage of his revenge by leaving the empty cup unrinsed next to the sink. Now for stage two.

Anakin returned to his bedroom and appraised his growing collection of mechanical paraphernalia. He chose a bulky piece of machinery with lots of individual components and systematically took it to pieces on the living room rug, making sure to spread the parts far and wide. Some of them were oily, which was a bonus. The grime coated Anakin’s hands, too, and he went around casually touching as many surfaces as possible before washing them. No doubt Anakin would have to be the one to clean it all up again, but the look on Obi-Wan’s face when he walked in was sure to be worth it.

All that was left for him to do was to sit amongst the chaos, tools at his side, and wait for Obi-Wan to come back.

It got boring very quickly.

Anakin tried to amuse himself by levitating some of the machine parts with the force, but it didn’t hold his attention for long. He started to doubt himself.

Maybe he was being too hard on Obi-Wan. It might not be his Master’s fault; maybe the Council had told him to keep Anakin’s lightsaber away from him. It seemed like the kind of thing they would do, and Obi-Wan would go along with it, because that’s the kind of Jedi he was. Anakin might only have been at the Temple for a few years, but he already knew that that was not the kind of Jedi he wanted to be. If he ever got a Padawan, he would trust them, and he certainly wouldn’t let a bunch of old Masters like Yoda tell him what to do.

When Obi-Wan got back, Anakin decided, he would get a proper answer out of him. Then Anakin could find a way to convince him that he was responsible or skilled or _good_ enough to have a lightsaber. Obi-Wan would give it back, and nobody would ever take it away from Anakin again.

Something occurred to him. When Obi-Wan had left for the briefing, he’d only been carrying his own lightsaber, not Anakin’s. Which meant that he had to have hidden Anakin’s lightsaber somewhere in their quarters.

Anakin closed his eyes and reached out to the force. Master Nu had said that when a Jedi found their kyber crystal, they bonded with it. Perhaps Anakin would be able to sense it in the force, if he tried really hard. It was worth a shot.

There was something in Obi-Wan’s bedroom. Anakin wasn’t certain that it was his crystal, but it could be.

He let himself inside. Obi-Wan’s room was a lot tidier than his own; it was unnatural to be that tidy. Anakin let the force guide him to the far side of the bed. He knelt down and ran his hands over the frame, finding a hidden catch. A drawer popped open, and inside—Anakin’s lightsaber.

Grinning, he snatched it up and span it in his hand. It was good to have it back. He ignited the blade and walked into the living room, using the force to clear himself a space.

The basic forms were child’s play for him now. He went through them, over and over, until the lightsaber lost its heaviness and became an extension of his arm. It was just him and the blade, swooping and dancing as one.

Obi-Wan hadn’t taught him any of the more advanced forms yet, but Anakin reckoned he could probably manage them. Soresu would be as good a place to start as any. The defensive form wasn’t to Anakin’s taste, but it was his Master’s primary form, so he’d had lots of chances to observe how it worked.

He tried to copy the tight movements, keeping the blade close to his body. It wasn’t so hard. The other forms probably wouldn’t be either. Djem So, something with more bite to it, or Ataru—

Burning.

Anakin fell to his knees, crying out in shock. He turned off the lightsaber and dropped it, cradling his left wrist. The smell of singed hair and flesh threatened to turn his stomach, and he focused on breathing steadily, tuning out the rush of blood in his ears. He had to look at the wound.

It wasn’t quite as bad as he’d feared, but it was still bad, and the blade had barely grazed the side of his wrist. Anakin tried not to think about what could have happened if it had cut any deeper.

The burn was worse than any he’d had before, working for Watto, but the same principles ought to apply. He rose on shaky legs and went to the sink, thrusting his wrist under the cold tap. Shame began to replace his shock. Obi-Wan was right. He couldn’t be trusted with a lightsaber. He could have taken his hand off, with nobody there to help him.

After fifteen minutes, Anakin pulled his wrist clear of the water. There was a supply of paper towels in his bedroom: Obi-Wan didn’t like him leaving oily rags about the place, and the towels were easy to dispose of. Anakin fetched one, soaked it through, and wrapped it around his wrist. It didn’t stop it from hurting, not that he expected it to. Anakin wasn’t a kid anymore, he knew there wasn’t any magic in it, but it would keep out the dirt.

There was no way he would ever be able to hide the burn from Obi-Wan. All Anakin could hope for was to disguise the cause. He picked up his lightsaber and put it back where he found it, then arranged an industrial transistor and soldering iron on his small heatproof workbench.

Obi-Wan came back just as he finished setting the scene. “Anakin? Where are you?”

“Coming, Master.” Anakin shuffled out of his bedroom. His Master hovered by the main door, surveying Anakin’s handiwork.

“It looks as though a Jawa sandcrawler exploded in here, though I assume it was you.” Obi-Wan’s face was indeed a picture. It gave Anakin no satisfaction. “Did you have a purpose in mind, or was this wanton destruction merely a test of my patience, my young Padawan?”

“There was a purpose,” Anakin said.

“I should hope so.” Obi-Wan crossed his arms. “I’m going to make some tea. Perhaps if you clean this up quickly enough, I’ll offer you a cup.”

“Yes, Master.”

Anakin bent down and reached for a couple of bolts. The paper towel started to slip, so he pressed the unburned side of his wrist to his stomach to keep it in place.

“Padawan.”

Anakin looked up. Obi-Wan was frowning at him. Anakin held his wrist tighter to his body. “Yes, Master?”

Obi-Wan beckoned, and Anakin reluctantly went to his side. “Give me your arm.”

Anakin offered it up, wincing as Obi-Wan unwrapped the paper towel. “I was working on a transistor, thought it would be useful to what I was doing, and the soldering iron—”

“Anakin, how…?” Obi-Wan’s mouth was open. He sounded horrified, and Anakin rubbed the back of his neck.

“Like I was saying, I dropped the soldering iron on my wrist. It’s fine, I’ve burned myself before. I had it under the tap for ages.”

Obi-Wan grimaced. “I’m not a fool, Anakin. I know a lightsaber burn when I see one.” Anakin felt his face heat up. “However, how you got hold of a lightsaber is not my most pressing concern. This needs bacta.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine—”

“Don’t argue with me, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s tone softened. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

“I know it won’t,” Anakin protested. “That’s not…” He huffed and glared at Obi-Wan’s feet. “Look, it was my fault. I deserved it. And it’s really not that big of a deal, Master. No point in wasting bacta on it.”

Obi-Wan put a hand on his shoulder, still gently supporting Anakin’s wrist. “Anakin, look at me.” Anakin didn’t want to, but obeyed. “I’m not angry with you.”

Obi-Wan had kind eyes. Sometimes Anakin forgot that. “I disobeyed you.”

“Yes, you did, and as your Master I am very disappointed in you. We _will_ talk about that later, but I don’t think there will be any need for punishment. I would wager that you have learned an important lesson today.”

Anakin nodded. “Yes, Master.”

“Good.” Obi-Wan offered him a warm smile, which failed to make Anakin feel better. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.” He started to rebind Anakin’s wrist with the damp towel. “Best to keep it covered for now.”

Obi-Wan let go and Anakin followed him out into the corridor, uncomfortable. He didn’t like the way his Master was acting, all that concern and gentleness. Anakin had screwed up, and he was paying for it, and that was fine. So what if it hurt. So what if it scarred. Using bacta on one little burn was a waste.

It would be pointless to argue, so Anakin kept his mouth shut. He lightly touched the paper towel, and got more reassurance from it than he had from Obi-Wan. It wasn’t magic, but at least it made sense.

Anakin set his jaw and kept walking.

* * *

She was in his arms, and she was dying, again. He couldn’t save her, again.

The Tusken tent morphed into desert, wind whipping sand into his face. A figure in white stood on the ridge. He ran to her, calling out, but Padmé drifted further and further from his reach as the dunes swallowed him. Red light flashed in the corner of his vision and he raised a green blade to parry it—Soresu, not Djem So. Dooku’s eyes were narrowed and dark, canyons that spoke of death and betrayal. The Sith lightsaber came down and he heard Obi-Wan scream his name.

Anakin woke up on the floor, panting, plastered in sweat.

A dream.

He staggered to his feet and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was still dark, the night sparing him from the sight of cold metal where his right hand should have been. He ran his left through his hair.

This needed to stop. He needed this to stop.

His mother was dead. Padmé was gone, had rejected him. The duel with Dooku was over, the outcome fixed and unalterable. All of this he had accepted. The continuous nightmares were inexplicable, and Anakin was at his wits’ end.

They were making him a General in the new Republic army. He couldn’t go on like this, couldn’t lead soldiers if he was waking up five times a night in a panic. It had to stop. He’d tried meditating, drugs, even one of those teas that Obi-Wan always claimed was calming, but none of it worked.

Tomorrow he would be knighted. A real Jedi at last. Finally independent, cut loose from Obi-Wan. Perhaps that was a part of it. An unconscious stress response to change, coming so soon on the back of loss. The loose end of his Padawan braid brushed against his naked shoulder. Part of him would miss having it there.

Anakin moaned quietly in frustrated exhaustion. His head throbbed, and he brought his right hand up to rub his temple without thinking. The cold digits made him flinch, but the chill helped.

He got up and rifled through one of the packing boxes by the door. This would be his last night in this bedroom. As a Knight, he would be assigned his own quarters, and Obi-Wan would be alone—unless he took another Padawan. Anakin selfishly hoped that he wouldn’t. This was _his_ room, and Obi-Wan was _his_ Master.

Anakin shook himself. It was the nightmares, and the lack of sleep; they were messing with his head. His feelings toward Obi-Wan were complicated, tangled up in his mother’s death, and meeting the Lars family, and the war, and Padmé. The last one most of all. He had told himself that her rejection had failed to upset him only because he’d known it was inevitable. It was a lie. The truth was clear, but entertaining it was futile. Obi-Wan wouldn’t want him either. That was that.

The paper towels were wedged under the head of a B-1 battle droid that Anakin had purloined on the way back to Coruscant. He pulled one free and padded out to the kitchen.

The living quarters were silent. Obi-Wan would be asleep, and Anakin hoped to join him. In the state of sleep, that is; though Anakin did find his gaze drawn to Obi-Wan’s bedroom door. It wasn’t locked. How easy it would be, to walk in and watch his Master sleep. To lie down at his side and listen to him breathe. To stay there, to rest, knowing that he wasn’t alone.

Anakin folded the paper towel into a thick rectangle and turned the tap on low, wary of the noise. He used his left hand to immerse the towel in cold water. It was safe to get his cybernetic prosthesis wet, but Anakin preferred to avoid it. The feeling of pressure without the sensation of wetness was difficult to get used to.

He went back to bed. Obi-Wan never stirred, which was almost a disappointment. Anakin wrapped himself in the sheets and lay on his back, draping the damp towel over his eyes. It may have been his imagination, but the pain of his headache began to ebb.

A new ache made itself known, this one in his heart. His mother was gone, but her little trick was still helping her son.

In the odd space between sleeping and waking, Anakin wished that wet paper towels were magic. That they could take away the dreams along with his pain. Or, if he was to dream, let him have a happy one.

Just one.

* * *

“General Skywalker? Commander Tano?”

Anakin blinked into darkness. What had happened?

“General?” It was Rex; Rex was the one shouting. Anakin should answer him.

“Rex?” he called. His voice echoed strangely.

“Are you both alright, General?” Rex’s reply was muffled.

“I’m fine,” Anakin said, “but I don’t know where Ahsoka is. It’s dark.”

Of course it was dark. They were in a cave. Cursing his idiocy, he pulled his lightsaber from his belt and flicked it on. The blue light revealed the rock passageway they had been walking down, and the large pile of boulders that now separated him from the rest of his team. He spotted his torch a few feet away and picked it up, bashing it against his thigh until it gave a steady glow.

“Master?”

Ahsoka.

Anakin turned around and found her curled on the ground, reddish-brown dust streaked across her lekku and montrals. She blinked in the torchlight, but her eyes were clear.

“It’s okay, I found her,” Anakin yelled up the passage. He put his lightsaber away and pulled her up.

“Thanks.” She spat out dust. “Yuck. What happened?”

“Rock fall,” Anakin said. “You okay, Snips?”

“Mostly. You?”

“Never better.” He walked up to the blockage. “Any thoughts on our current situation?”

Ahsoka joined him and touched the pile of rocks. “I’m not sure moving any of this would be a good idea. Looks like it’s holding up the roof.”

“I agree. The last thing we need is more coming down on top of us.” He shone his torch the other way, where the tunnel meandered onwards. “If we’re lucky, there’ll be another way out of here.”

“Well, this tunnel has to go somewhere, right Master?”

Anakin raised his eyebrow at her. “Sure. Let’s just hope it’s somewhere we want to be.” He addressed the boulders. “Rex, you hear me?”

“Yes, General.”

“Get the men back outside. This tunnel’s unstable, we won’t be able to remove the blockage. Ahsoka and I will go on and see if there’s another way out.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Nobody asked what would happen if the tunnel was a dead end. Better not to think about it. Besides, Anakin was confident that it wasn’t. That’s what had led them into the cave system in the first place. Somebody was smuggling spice across these mountains, and they weren’t doing it above ground.

Anakin led the way deeper into the caves. Ahsoka followed, a quiet but heartening presence in the force. His Padawan would not have been his first choice of a companion for such an unexpected adventure, but he couldn’t deny that he was glad not to be alone.

“At least we’ve put an end to the spice operation, Master,” Ahsoka said. “I don’t see how a smuggler’s going to get past that pile of rocks if we can’t.”

“An excellent point,” Anakin agreed. “I think we can count this mission as a success, even if we don’t catch our guy.”

“So long as we get out of here ourselves,” Ahsoka added.

“Obviously.” They came to a fork in the path, and Anakin halted. “Oh, great. Just what I was hoping _not_ to find.”

Ahsoka stepped in front of him and peered down the branching tunnels. “The one on the left looks like it goes north. That would fit with your theory about the smuggling route.”

“Sure, but the right one slopes upwards. More likely to be a way to the surface.”

“I don’t know, Master.” She looked at him, troubled. “I think we should keep going north.”

Anakin shook his head. “Trust me, Snips. We go up.”

He headed down the tunnel on the right. Ahsoka sighed loudly, but went with him.

The tunnel did slope upwards, though its twisting and turning would have been disorientating for anyone but a Jedi. Then it started going east, and Anakin’s confidence waned, deserting him completely when the tunnel opened out into a small cavern. No exits.

Anakin swore.

“Would this be a bad time to say that I told you so?” Ahsoka asked.

Anakin stood at the edge of a dark pool and seethed. Once upon a time, he remembered, he had sworn that if he ever had a Padawan, he would listen to them. Hindsight was a hell of a thing.

“Alright,” he said at last. “We’ll have to turn back and go the other way.”

“Yep, I definitely told you so.” Ahsoka smirked at him, then noticed something on the far side of the cavern. “Hey, what’s that?”

Raising the torch high above his head, Anakin gave them a better view. Nestled behind a cluster of stalagmites were several small parcels.

Anakin whistled. “Looks like we found where our smuggler’s been stashing his merchandise. Not such a wrong turn after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ahsoka said. “Let’s see exactly what he’s been hiding down here.” She started to walk towards the cache.

Foreboding in the force.

“Ahsoka, get back—”

A bright flash seared Anakin’s retinas. He stumbled backwards as the ground rumbled beneath his feet, instinctively throwing up an arm to cover his face. Stalactites fell from the ceiling and he dodged, hurling himself against the cavern wall.

The light faded, and he regained his footing. “Ahsoka!”

A small groan reached him through the tinnitus. Anakin was at Ahsoka’s side in an instant, cupping her chin and checking for obvious injuries.

“Ow.” Ahsoka grimaced.

“Where are you hurt?” Anakin demanded. This was his fault. He should have taken the other route, should have listened to her; should have assumed that the cache would be protected against intruders, stopped her sooner—

“Just my ankle, I think,” Ahsoka said, batting Anakin away. She sat up and extended her left leg in front of her, rolling the joint. Her hiss of pain did nothing for Anakin’s nerves.

“Is it broken?”

Ahsoka shook her head. “No. I went over on it when I fell. Feels like it’s sprained.”

“You’re sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?”

“Positive,” she assured him. “Either I got lucky, or our smuggler needs to rethink his security arrangements.”

Anakin crawled to her feet and carefully removed her left boot. Her ankle was already swelling, the skin below the bone darkening. “Do you think you’ll be able to walk on it?”

Ahsoka snorted. “Don’t really have much choice, do I?”

No, she didn’t, and that was on Anakin. He looked away. What his Padawan needed was rest and a bacta patch. Instead she was facing a long trek through uneven passageways, the strong possibility of encountering a dangerous drug smuggler, and no guarantee of ever seeing the sky again. All because Anakin got bored waiting for the Separatists to show up and decided to interfere with the local spice trade. Obi-Wan would be furious with him, to say nothing of the Council, but none could be as furious as Anakin himself.

He didn’t even have any pain relief he could give her. The clones carried most of their supplies; all Anakin had on him were his lightsaber, torch, and useless commlink. He checked the pouch on his belt just in case. Half a protein bar, the river stone Obi-Wan gave him, a slicing tool, and a folded paper towel.

That last item gave him pause. He had long ago given up using them for first aid, or as glorified comfort blankets. The realities of war had seen to that, but had also given Anakin a new use for them: firelighters. Safe and effective, patent pending. In this instance, though, his mother’s old wisdom might still hold.

Anakin took a bite of the protein bar and tossed the rest to Ahsoka.

“Thanks,” she said. “Master, what are you doing?”

Anakin had stretched around and submerged the paper towel in the pool. The water was freezing. “An old trick I learned from my mother.” He turned back and pressed the wet towel to the growing bruise on Ahsoka’s ankle. “Does that help?”

She nodded, and Anakin could see some of the tension leave her. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.” Her lips twitched. “Though I don’t see how a cold compress is much of a family trick.”

“The trick is that it’s magic,” he said. He was calming down. Ahsoka was okay, and he wasn’t helpless. “A wet paper towel solves everything.”

“I’m sure it does, Master.” Scepticism wasn’t the only thing in her voice, and Anakin knew he’d be in for a lot of ribbing once they had reunited with the clones. Still, if it made Ahsoka feel better, it was worth it. Anakin had a lot to answer for.

Once the towel began to feel warm, Anakin removed it, wrung it out, and stuffed it back into his pouch. He swung Ahsoka’s arm around his shoulders and hauled them both up. “You ready?”

“Very.” She leaned on him and tested her weight on her left foot. “Let’s get out of here.”

They retraced their steps back to the fork, Ahsoka limping and stone-faced. This time they took the northern path, stopping now and then to give them both a break. Eventually, the tunnel began to rise.

Anakin didn’t realise that they were out of the caves until the sweeping search beams of a gunship fell across them. He waved it down.

Rex hopped out of the passenger compartment and ran to help Anakin with Ahsoka. “Glad you both made it out, General; Commander.”

“Me too, Rex,” Anakin said. “Did you run into any more problems?”

“None at all, sir. I redeployed the men on search and rescue; we’ve been flying laps of both sides of the mountain range for hours. I… also took the liberty of informing General Kenobi.”

Anakin felt a thrill of discomfort and longing. There would be a lecture coming his way, but so long as Obi-Wan came to deliver it personally, Anakin would welcome it. “No, you did good, Rex. He’s the only other General in the sector. Standard procedure, right?”

“Right.” 

Together they got Ahsoka onto the gunship, disregarding her claims that she was perfectly capable of climbing in by herself. The LAAT took off, Ahsoka settled securely on the floor next to the cockpit, Anakin and Rex holding on to the dangling straps.

“I had the med team put on standby back on the _Resolute_ ,” Rex said. “They’ll have you sorted out in no time, Commander.”

“Thanks, Rex,” Ahsoka said. “I’ll take a bacta patch over Anakin’s magic trick any day. No offense, Master,” she added.

Anakin scratched his neck. “Hey, I had to do something.”

“Magic trick?” Rex asked, bemused.

“Apparently wet paper towels have magical healing properties,” Ahsoka said seriously, as Anakin rolled his eyes.

“Mock it all you like,” he told her, “but don’t deny that you were grateful for it.” Anakin had been.

She smiled at him. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

* * *

The _Twilight_ was a handy thing to have around, but only if it was in good working order. Happily, Anakin enjoyed keeping it that way. It kept his thoughts away from other things, like the Council’s condemnation of his handling of the smuggling operation, and the fact that he hadn’t heard from Obi-Wan since getting back to the _Resolute_.

Trailing wires from the console tickled Anakin’s skin. “Artoo, pass me that—”

Before Anakin could specify what he wanted, the tool was already in his hand. Obi-Wan could say what he liked about droids, but R2-D2 was the best astromech unit in the galaxy, no two ways about it.

“Thanks, buddy.” He set about connecting the cockpit controls to the new processing unit. New was a relative term, he’d salvaged it from a wreck on Onderon, but it was still an upgrade for the _Twilight_. Pretty much anything was an upgrade for the _Twilight_.

Everything seemed to be in order. “Okay,” he told Artoo. “Turn the power back on.”

Anakin heard the hum as the ship came online. It was working. Artoo whistled, and Anakin grinned. Working on the _Twilight_ gave him a lot of pleasure. It was satisfying to be able to look at something broken and know that he had the power to fix it. The force and the powers of a Jedi offered a lot, but only mechanics gave him that.

“Power it back down, Artoo, and I’ll run a diagnostic later.” Overall, a success, but Anakin could see a wire starting to spark through its insulation. He’d need to replace it.

Artoo beeped in acknowledgement and the ship returned to hibernation. Anakin yanked the old wire out and cast it aside, then started connecting a thicker one to the processor.

“Still playing with this old pile of scrap, I see.”

Obi-Wan.

Anakin sat up quickly, whacking his head on the edge of the console. Pain reverberated across his skull. He scrambled out into the open, holding his left hand to his forehead.

“Anakin, are you alright?” Obi-Wan was already on his knees next to Anakin. Artoo had gone.

“When did you get here?” Anakin asked.

“About twenty minutes ago. I was going to look for you on the bridge, but Rex told me you were down here.” Obi-Wan sounded worried.

Despite the pain in his head, Anakin was the opposite. “You must have walked right past me.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Forgive me for thinking that after a day hiking through caves, apparently half-carrying your Padawan most of the way, you might have decided to get some rest.”

“If you thought I’d be resting, you’d have checked out my quarters,” Anakin pointed out.

“Perhaps I was trying to be discreet.” Obi-Wan pulled Anakin’s hand away from his head.

“Is it bad?” Anakin asked. He hadn’t felt any blood, but that didn’t mean much.

“The skin’s not broken.” He passed his thumb along Anakin’s hairline, and Anakin winced. “Any blurred vision? Nausea? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“None, none, and also none,” Anakin said in a monotone. “That last one only works if you actually hold up fingers for me to count.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “In that case, I believe you’ll live. Your hard head has saved you again.” He dropped his hand and spread his arms.

“Ha ha, very funny.” Anakin fell into Obi-Wan’s embrace and tucked his nose into Obi-Wan’s neck, inhaling deeply. Obi-Wan held him close and rubbed his spine. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Obi-Wan said. “I hate not being with you.”

Fluttering in Anakin’s stomach. “Oh?”

Obi-Wan hummed. “It seems that every time I leave you to your own devices, mayhem ensues.”

“I resent that.”

Anakin felt Obi-Wan chuckle. “I speak only the truth. But I suppose I do enjoy your company. You can be surprisingly agreeable when the mood takes you.”

“I’ll give you _surprisingly agreeable_ ,” Anakin grumbled.

Obi-Wan sobered. “How’s your head?”

“How do you think?” Anakin sensed Obi-Wan gearing up to chastise him, and relented. “It hurts.”

“Do you need a medic?”

Obi-Wan was asking, not ordering him, and Anakin appreciated that more than he could say. Head injuries weren’t something to take lightly, but they’d both had more than their fair share over the years. Obi-Wan trusted that Anakin knew what he was doing. Force knew, he hadn’t always been deserving of that kind of trust, but he’d got a lot better at asking for help and knowing when he needed it.

“Like you said, I’ll live,” Anakin said. One side of his mouth curled slyly. “I think you should probably keep an eye on me, though. Just in case it turns out that I do have concussion or something.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Only you, Anakin, could turn a head injury into an excuse for—”

“For what?” Anakin sat back and tried to look innocent.

Words appeared to be a struggle for Obi-Wan. “Canoodling,” he pronounced at last.

“Canoodling.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes glinted. “It’s a perfectly good word.”

Anakin shook his head in mock despair and kissed him. He left it light and brief—they may be alone, but the _Twilight_ ’s cockpit had viewports and there were clones in the hangar outside. He pulled back with regret.

Obi-Wan’s attention wandered to the sore spot on Anakin’s head. “Joking aside, should I find you some painkillers?”

“It’s not that bad. And I’m not just saying that,” Anakin assured him. “Painkillers won’t make much of a difference. It’ll be fine in an hour or so.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan conceded. “What about a cold compress? Or one of those paper towels you were always so attached to?”

The mention of the magical wet paper towels, knowledge of which was no doubt making its way among his men courtesy of Rex and Ahsoka at that very moment, nearly made him clench his fists. He counted Obi-Wan’s breaths until he felt able to consider it seriously.

“No, I think I’m okay,” Anakin said. Something cold and damp might be a good idea, but Anakin had a better one. He inched forward and whispered in Obi-Wan’s ear. “I know what _would_ help.”

To Anakin’s delight, Obi-Wan shivered. “I’m sure you do.” He swallowed. “Go on, then. What do you have in mind?”

Suddenly unsure of himself, Anakin gripped the front of Obi-Wan’s tunic. Heat rose in his neck. He tried to relax and force it back down, lest it make his head worse. What was he thinking? The idea was childish, and stupid, and Obi-Wan would think him an idiot.

“Anakin?”

Desire won over pride. Anakin spoke quickly, before he could change his mind. “Kiss it better?”

Obi-Wan said nothing.

Mortified, Anakin tried to break away from him, but Obi-Wan yanked him back. A calloused hand stroked his cheek, tilting his face in Obi-Wan’s direction.

Against his will, Anakin met his gaze. Instead of ridicule, he found sincerity. The fight drained out of him, and the galaxy collapsed into one singularity. Obi-Wan.

“I think that can be arranged,” Obi-Wan said softly.

Anakin closed his eyes as Obi-Wan gently brushed his lips against his forehead.

Maybe, Anakin thought, as warm contentment chased away his pain; maybe there had always been some magic in his mother’s old trick, just not in the way he had assumed. It had never been in the paper towel. It had been in her.

In her memory, and in her love.

“Better?” Obi-Wan murmured.

Anakin entwined his flesh fingers with Obi-Wan’s, where they belonged. “Like magic.”

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this fic was supposed to be short...
> 
> For the uninitiated, in British primary schools it's common to give kids a wet paper towel when they hurt themselves. It may or may not have any actual medical benefit, but the placebo effect is strong. Very strong.
> 
> Many thanks to sweet_sarcastic for the idea! Not sure this is what you had in mind, but I hope you liked it anyway!


End file.
